Homecoming
by cityofeleven
Summary: When Irene Adler suddenly waltzes her way back into Sherlock's life, John is angry and new feelings begin to arise...
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there. Well this is my first ever fanfiction that I have written so please go easy on me! Any reviews and/or constructive criticism is well appreciated. Thank you for reading and I hope that you enjoy it - I have very big plans for this! I apologise in advance for any typos (I have checked vigorously but I'm only human!) :D_

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The bitter November air stung John as he strode through the streets of London; he blamed Sherlock for him forgetting his jacket. If he didn't leave that brain in the bath tub he wouldn't have slipped on it and slammed his head on the tiles. He didn't even apologise. Tosser. He was that angry he just pulled on random clothes and stormed out, leaving a very confused Mrs Hudson on the stairs.

He sighed and trudged along the pavement, going nowhere in particular. No matter what he tried, his thoughts always returned to his deranged flatmate who's been acting weirder than usual. He's been staying in his room more; not wanting John to accompany him on cases. He missed him. He never thought he would admit this (even to himself) but it felt like a part of him was missing. All his life consisted of recently was going to work in the surgery, coming back, being ignored by Sherlock, eating alone, going to sleep and that's it. Sherlock knew about his need, his thirst for danger. Why did he deny him that? He shook his head trying to get the thought of Sherlock to disappear.

When it seemed like the world couldn't give him anymore crap, the resented black car pulled up. John swore as the door swung open, waiting for his entrance. John reluctantly clambered in, slamming the door shut.

"Now, now John there's no need to take out your tensions on the poor door." Mycroft spoke, with too much of an edge for John's comfort. The car eased away, settling into London's rush hour.

"What do you want Mycroft? I'm really not in the mood" John spat, tapping his fingers repetitively against his leg.

"Well, since you're not in the easiest of moods I'll keep this short." A brown file emerged out of nowhere and was dropped in John's lap. John looked at it begrudgingly. "What the hell is this?"

Mycroft turned to John, a sliver of worry in his face. "Something that's going to turn both our worlds upside down." John peered down at the file. He gently peeled back the cover to find a pile of surveillance photos.

"These were taken a week ago, four days ago and yesterday respectively. Take a look." Mycroft turned to the window, gazing out at the bustling streets. John looked at one of the photos; a pixellated figure standing over a body, lying undignified on the floor of an alley in East London.

"Listen, Mycroft, I have no idea why you're showing me these," he gestured to the heap, "if you need help on whatever this is you know you need to show Sherlock."

Mycroft considered this. "Hmm, that's the problem you see. If my dearest little brother knew about this well…who knows? Even I didn't see this coming. Look closer."

John returned to the photos. What the hell has Sherlock got to do with this? And why would Mycroft of all people come to _him_? Ordinary, unimportant old him. He exhaled loudly and studied the figure in the photo. By the looks of it a woman, average height, dark hair twisted back…wait, no. It can't be. A sudden realisation hit him, rendering him nearly speechless.

"No, this is a mistake, it can't be…she's dead. You said yourself she was dead."

"So we thought." Mycroft said indifferently.

"Wait, that's it? You're saying she's just suddenly come back from the dead and that's all you can say?" John hated her. Loathed her. Ever since that moment in...he shook his head. "You said she was dead." John knew it was pointless, but he still couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I know I did. We were wrong. Very wrong." John stared at Mycroft. He was right. Our worlds will be turned upside down if she does comes back. Twice over at that. John sighed and looked out. Spots of delicate rain were appearing on the glass.

"It seems it's not only us who know either." Mycroft didn't elaborate, and John didn't really want him to. "She was merely an inconvenience last time, but she's done so much more now and it appears she wants Sherlock back in her life. We need to be prepared, John, in every way possible. Sherlock especially." A lump had grown in John's throat. She had no fucking right to come back to Sherlock. None. John pressed his head against the window. Mycroft was right, as much as he loathed to admit it. That bitch is already causing a stir.

"She's coming, isn't she?" John said flatly.

"Yes, John. Irene Adler is coming back."

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_So there you have it! I hope you enjoyed it! Hopefully I did these amazing characters some justice and I do hope to get much more deeper in their characters - this is just the beginning. :D_


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello again! Thank you for the follows. I am sorry it took a while to get this chapter up I have been super busy! I hope you enjoy! I apologise in advance for any typos but I'm only human. :D_

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The rain was pouring heavier now, beating against the window with giant thuds, washing the street out in a mixture of colour. John shifted in his seat; all he could think about was Sherlock. It made him uncomfortable about all the ways he began noticing his flatmate: the way his shirt deliciously stretched across his chest; the way his infinite blue eyes light up when he's talking about a case…shit. He wasn't gay, no way no how, but there was something about Sherlock that made his heart flutter and warmth spread through his veins. His feelings have been growing for a while now. John had hoped it would go away with time, but every accidental touch became more and more intense, exhilarating even. Yep it was going to be a long day.

Mycroft's boring drone gradually roused John from his thoughts. "Are you even listening to me?" John shifted, half-heartedly shrugging. "Of course I am. Intently as ever."

Mycroft merely glanced at him. John turned to him, settling on a more serious note. "So what are we going to do?"

"Only time will tell with this case."

The car dropped John back at Baker Street, after he promised Mycroft he'd update him on Sherlock. This was going to be big for him. Hell gi-fucking-gantic.

John trudged up the stairs, body and mind suddenly exhausted. When he reached the top he stopped dead. It hit John as soon as he entered the living room; the sickly stench of expensive perfume clung to every crevice. She's been here. That bitch has been in _his _home.

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"Oh John stop being so melodramatic she was only here for thirty minutes and twenty-four seconds." Oh boy. John has having none of that.

"_Only thirty minutes?_ This place reeks of her. And what were you doing talking to that bitch anyway?" John's blood began to boil, anger rising. Wait…was he jealous? God why is this so confusing?

"I was talking with _Irene_ since she's so…fascinating. I have to say I am mildly pleased she has returned. She puts my mind at ease, like no one has recently."

What? A pang of unexpected hurt stabbed at John. He always thought himself to be the one who did that. He was his best friend after all. Wow he was getting soft.

"Well if that's the way you feel then I won't get in the way." John said coldly. He turned away, heading towards his room.

"Oh for heaven's sake John why are you acting so peculiar all of a sudden? I owe you nothing and if you don't let your emotions blight your senses you might find that she is quite entertaining."

John massaged his temples, his brain fuzzy. "For fuck's sake why don't you see?" The words slipped out before John knew what was happening. Shit.

"See what, John? You're being very unclear."

"_I'm being unclear?_ You're the one prancing off to cases without such a second thought about me. And then the next thing I know a woman who I absolutely loathed has suddenly come back from the dead and is prancing around our flat!"

"Don't be so stupid, John. She wasn't prancing," he said with a smirk. John's nostrils flared. His fist was just begging to punch that twat, "and I don't know why you're being so dramatic. All she did was visit to reacquaint herself with London and her contacts." Sherlock plonked himself on the sofa, his shirt rising, revealing a sliver of creamy skin. "I don't comprehend why you can't stand her; she has done nothing to you." He looked at me expectantly, his eyes trained on mine.

Blood thumped in John's ears and he could feel the heat rushing to his face. What could he say? _Well I fancy you and want to shag your brains out but you're too focused on her and not me. _There was no point denying it to himself anymore, but there was no way in hell he was telling Sherlock.

"I-It's just t-that she's messed with all our heads and she's not safe; there are photos of her standing over a body." John clambered for words, scared that the genius will figure out his true feelings. Sherlock dismissed his comment and began to look rather intently at John.

"You're stuttering, and you've gone bright red…interesting."

"Nope. No it's not at all interesting. I'm just going to go…" John made a beeline for his room, desperate to get away from the suddenly curious Sherlock. It was all very awkward.

John had almost made it to his room when warmth circled around his wrist, holding him back. John inwardly sighed. So close. He begrudgingly turned round, finding Sherlock's face mere inches from his. John's breath caught.

Sherlock spoke, as smooth as melted chocolate. "Why all of a sudden are you acting strange?"

John shivered. His mind was screaming at him to run, hell sprint as far as possible, but his body had a very different idea. His feet remained planted to the spot, his eyes transfixed on Sherlock's angelic face. "Let me go," John whispered.

"Reading people is a second-nature for me. But when it comes to you, I'm blind." The genius tilted his head, eyes dancing across John's face, a gentle flush appearing across his cheekbones. "That's what fascinated me for all this time; you constantly surprise me. Now you're acting extremely absurd and I haven't the faintest idea why." Sherlock raised a finger, slowly trailing it down John's face, his nerves going into overdrive.

John just stared. With him standing so close his feelings totally outweighed his logic and as it seems dignity; he took a tiny step forward, close enough to feel warmth radiating off Sherlock's skin. John leaned in closer. "Deduce me."

Sherlock's sculptured mouth began to move when the most ill-timed vibrate occurred. Sherlock fled in an instant, leaving John hot and with a hammering heart on the landing. Ice began to coat his insides. _Did he really just do that? _Part of him was still denying his newfound feelings, but standing there enveloped in Sherlock's heat felt…good. Right even. And he swore for just a sliver of a second he saw Sherlock respond too. He remembered the dainty flush, feeling the need to glide his hand over the silky skin. His mind must have played tricks on him since all that was in Sherlock's brain now was the new case Lestrade needs fucking help with.

"Well I suppose this is it then?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock hummed half-heartedly, his eyes glued to his phone.

Anger and frustration pumped through his veins once again. "I don't know how you can't see." John turned away.

"See what?"

John stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to find Sherlock with a twisted face. He was rarely confused.

"You're the genius, you figure it out."

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_So there you have it! I hope you enjoyed it and I hope I'm doing the characters some kind of justice. Thanks again! :D_


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello there! I first just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has followed/favourited - it means the world. And a special thanks to randomplotbunny, who has given me a big boost and made me all fuzzy and happy - thanks! I also want to apologise for the amount of time it took to get this up. I am currently running up to my GCSE exams so it's pretty much go go go, and (unfortunately) must take up a lot of my time. I'm not completely happy with this but I just wanted to get it out there, since I have a pretty good idea of where I'd like this story to go. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy! :D_

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Before Sherlock could say anything else, John headed towards the bathroom; he needed to escape Sherlock's scrutinising stare. Was the genius really that confused, or was he just manipulating John for fun? Sherlock did it to nearly anyone, what made him any different?

As John reached the bathroom door, he heard the front door slam. Groaning, he entered. John turned on the shower and quickly stripped, ignoring the sharp cold water as he jumped straight in. Soon the mirrors began steaming up and John stood underneath the beating hot water, feeling the water trickle down his body. What was happening to him? This whole thing with Sherlock was taking a turn he'd never expected for it to take. The whole thing, quite frankly, shook him up a bit. He was never afraid of feelings or confronting them, but when he was Sherlock it was beyond anything he had ever felt before: he was a live wire, electricity coursing through him at the slightest of brushings. It had never been this intense before, and god help him for it being all for his manipulative, infuriating flatmate who was a _guy._ He was hard just thinking about him.

John sighed and tipped his head back, resting his head against the slick tiles. His mind wondered back to what happened in the hallway, the delicious flush of his cheekbones, the way his body was mere inches from his. John's body became alive, exquisite heat pounding through his body.

A mangled gasp escaped his lips as he grasped his achingly hard cock and began pumping, desperate for a quick release to his tensions. His pace increasing until his hand was moving frantically and aching like hell. Beads of pre-come ran down his shaft as John chased the beginning of what his body needed. Images of Sherlock flashed in and out of his mind, which seemed to make it that much more intense. He didn't last long. Bright white dots appeared as he came in sweet and sharp spurts. Hell he hasn't been this quick since his randy teenage years. Panting, John turned and washed away the traces of his release. The whole thing left him with an annoying fuzzy head - not exactly what he'd been hoping for. Sighing, John picked up the shower gel and began scrubbing, hoping his feelings would wash down the drain too.

Ten minutes later he was dry and dressed, moving restlessly around the flat. All that surrounded him was Sherlock. Shaking his head he grabbed his coat and left, stepping into the bitter night air.

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Mycroft huffed as he shifted through mountains off surveillance photos and footage. He hadn't left his office in over seven hours, trailing the scraps which Adler had left. Normally issues like this didn't really get to him, but this is a whole different ballgame. He was truly concerned about Sherlock and his relationship with Adler. Mycroft never truly saw to what extent Adler got to Sherlock, nobody did – well, except for John, and by judging his colourful remarks about her she got to him more than they care to admit. Mycroft just hoped the whole situation didn't break the two apart. Ever since the army doctor arrived, Sherlock has slowly been, well, transformed really. His dealings with other people has reached the bare acceptable, he hasn't touched any questionable substance, and is a whole lot brighter generally. He'll never admit it but because of John's effect on Sherlock, his own chaotic mind has been put at rest, knowing he didn't have to worry about his little brother. They were extremely good for each other, and even though Mycroft stands by his golden rule of caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock as it seems is the exception.

Grinning, he took a sip of his stone cold coffee and cringed. "Anthea, more coffee." As soon as the words left his lips Sherlock came barging in, plonking himself in the antique leather chair opposite.

"Oh Anthea, can't say I particularly like what you have done to yourself this time, mayb-"

"Grow up, Mycroft; this is not the time for joking around," Sherlock spat, bringing his fingers together.

"I am surprised you know what the term 'joking' is," Sherlock gave Mycroft a glare not so different from that of death. "Anyway, to what do I owe such pleasure in your company?"

Sherlock's expression softened slightly. "It's about John." Mycroft set down his mug. This is going to be very interesting.

"What have you done now, dearest brother? Upsetting John is never a good idea, now more than ever."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "Why 'now more than ever'? Nothing has changed."

"Oh yes it has. Ever since Miss Adl-"

"So what she's come back and leaving bodies at, I admit, a rather alarming rate? It still doesn't change anything." Sherlock leaned back. "Even John's acting like it's the apocalypse, which is strange since he had no real involvement with her. I cannot believe I am saying this, let alone to you of all people, but I am so confused by him. I kept pushing him trying to catalyse a response and well-" His voice trailed off. Mycroft, secretly taking much glee to the situation, waited for him to continue, but Sherlock resided to staring rather vacantly at the wall. He had never seen his little brother like this. "Well, what?" he prompted.

"Well, he…responded in a way in which I don't understand and I…" Sherlock inhaled sharply, suddenly rising from the chair. "This is ridiculous. I should not have come here." He strode towards the door.

"Maybe you should tell him," Mycroft said quietly.

"Tell him what, exactly?"

"How you feel."

Sherlock halted. He turned around slowly, facing Mycroft. "How I feel? I d-don't have f-feelings," Sherlock choked out.

Mycroft smiled faintly. "Oh I am nearly one hundred percent sure you do. Do you find yourself hanging on his every word? Does your heart start pounding when someone mentions his name? Does your stomach flutter every time he praises you?" Sherlock just stared at Mycroft, the realisation suddenly sinking in. "You need him, Sherlock. He keeps you grounded, he keeps you going. And recently you've been finding yourself needing him in more ways than one, ways you never thought your brilliant person would desire, and you're scared of it. That's why you abandon poor John for cases; you don't know what to say, how to act," Mycroft leaned forward, "or maybe you're frightened that John may feel the same way."

Mycroft could tell that his little brother's brain was processing it all in rapid speed, trying to make sense of what neither of them has ever experienced.

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning towards the door again. "What is happening to me?"

Mycroft chuckled, and then spoke: "you're going to have to experience this for yourself." With that, Sherlock swiftly opened the door and left. Mycroft smiled faintly to himself. Hopefully that won't be destroyed. But then again, it all depends on one, seemingly normal doctor.

Not ten seconds later Anthea came in, coffee in her hand. She came over to the desk and set it down. "How much did you hear?" Mycroft said. Anthea looked up to her boss. "Enough." With that they both smiled deviously at each other, and carried on with their work.

Mycroft took a sip of the coffee-wow Anthea could make a good one- and settled back into the pursuit. Less than a minute later his phone rang, with that annoying tune Mycroft knew Sherlock hated. "Hello?"

"Mycroft, we've got another one." said the voice of a slightly distraught Gregory Lestrade. Oh God Adler's gone at it again, but this time, with the sadness and anger laced in the Detective Inspectors voice, it seems very different.

"Yes, what has happened? Who is it?" He heard muffled cries in the background. Whatever she's done, its coming home big time.

"I-it's one o-of our o-own."

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So there you have it! I hope you found it at least mildly enjoyable and I hope to get the next chapter up soon. Thanks again! :D


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